reeling reals

wasteland mansion walls pinball
muffled movie lines

smug peacock-tail party sounds,
rewound so many times

smiling salesman anecdotes,
hotshot trained, synthetic
ethics, cult confined

sin, serenity,  soul sincerity
of any bleedin’ kind?

©Anthony Gorman 2018

images: pixabay

black sun

slow shallow breath tonight
to rhythmic hum

stare gloomy sky down,
shaken, shunned
and stunned

become the drying drowned
you wished you’d saved

cased, placed and erased
in cold calling grave

pity paved with
martyr’s mark

to lay rest of your memoir days
under ink sun
run dark

©Anthony Gorman 2018

images: pixabay


fragrant fiends waft from
smoldering tip of sacred

desperate aroma makes
fetal-pose spirit

lit to stifle acrid, feral
funk of retribution

crossed conscience
having none of

©Anthony Gorman 2018

images: pixabay

boy of stone

skinny with stilted sentiment,
poses gutted boy of stone

wasn’t always rigid,

fluid-flush, flinch with
esoteric meaning,

in fantasy flight with feeling,
just like anyone

but, no

courtyard crowd’s chloroform gagged
lad’s humane right to speak

vibrant voice stomped flat and
shrunk dog-whistle weak

ghosts of minor’s dim ambitions ,
drain salmon-rose kissed cheeks

affect metallic, tight
and braille,

baby’s breath blown
attic air stale

blood fed flesh turned
ash and bedrock bone

boy of stone,
stands alone

©Anthony Gorman 2018

images: pixabay

bedroom buildup

slight butt-tight bulging heels
slide into

choke arch

eyes trace c’mere curvaceous

back to parched
desert start

dressed desire clasps
’round writhing wrists,

iron fist key twists,
fastens it

with hard-on finger pressed
to tip of quivered



©Anthony Gorman 2018

images: pixabay

messy math

cold calculated probability
of this sticking?

not, encouraging..

based on cookie
crumble of numbers
down saddened
ladders, keep
kicking out tape
repaired, rotten

fun’s in the tally
of treasured cozy
times ‘fore our worn
sweater’s threads
tangled us

pain’s in subtraction
of each shameful icepick
reaction to timed twilight

no satisfaction,
no easy ends here

just feeling’s fucked up

it’s messy math.

©Anthony Gorman 2018

images: pixabay

which me?

which evil evening’s poisoned pen
blend of

shapeshifting tangy potion
should i bleed?

well, let’s see…

one’s all canned-soup talk show claps n’ smiles,
cloying kudos pseudo-sweet,

dissolving in cutesy cuddles’ puddles beneath
satin gallows sheets,

depressing and dry, i sigh,

just ‘bend over and fucking give it
hard, to me’.

other’s a blown gutter trash
casanova’s cover,

under hot pickled-sour-
ennui’s ugly hour of a
lonesome lover,

when it was choked back and spat, in
vodka’s bitter ash

that she preferred dangling cock of
my dirty dollar sign for a

why bother…

©Anthony Gorman 2018

images: pixabay


barely flinching, inched closer
to sticky sink
and froze,

i suppose, self-loathing thrill
filled ‘roid-bat beaten brain
’till boiling burst

spilling disgraceful ills out
numbed thumb faucet

in gruesome,
goregasmic gush

face forced, fucked
and flushed

©Anthony Gorman 2018

images: pixabay